Claude Frollo, holding the first printed book he had seen in
one hand, and pointing with the other to the gigantic mass of
Notre Dame, dark against the sunset, prophesied "Ceci tuera
cela." One might to-day paraphrase the sentence which Victor
Hugo put into his archdeacon's mouth, and pointing to the
elaborately appointed dinner-tables of our generation, assert
that the Dinner was killing the Drama.

New York undoubtedly possesses at this moment more and better
constructed theatres, in proportion to its population, than
any other city on the globe, and, with the single exception of
Paris, more money is probably spent at the theatre by our
people than in any other metropolis. Yet curiously enough,
each decade, each season widens the breach between our
discriminating public and the stage. The theatre, instead of
keeping abreast with the intellectual movement of our country,
has for the last thirty years been slowly but steadily
declining, until at this moment there is hardly a company
playing in legitimate comedy, tragedy, or the classic
masterpieces of our language.

In spite of the fact that we are a nation in full literary
production, boasting authors who rank with the greatest of
other countries, there is hardly one poet or prose-writer to-
day, of recognized ability, who works for the stage, nor can
we count more than one or two high-class comedies or lyric
dramas of American origin.

It is not my intention here to criticise the contemporary
stage, although the condition of the drama in America is so
unique and so different from its situation in other countries
that it might well attract the attention of inquiring minds;
but rather to glance at the social causes which have produced
this curious state of affairs, and the strained relations
existing between our elite (here the word is used in its
widest and most elevated sense) and our stage.

There can be little doubt that the deterioration in the class
of plays produced at our theatres has been brought about by
changes in our social conditions. The pernicious "star"
system, the difficulty of keeping stock companies together,
the rarity of histrionic ability among Americans are
explanations which have at different times been offered to
account for these phenomena. Foremost, however, among the
causes should be placed an exceedingly simple and prosaic fact
which seems to have escaped notice. I refer to the
displacement of the dinner hour, and the ceremony now
surrounding that meal.

Forty years ago dinner was still a simple affair, taken at
hours varying from three to five o'clock, and uniting few but
the members of a family, holidays and fetes being the rare
occasions when guests were asked. There was probably not a
hotel in this country at that time where a dinner was served
later than three o'clock, and Delmonico's, newly installed in
Mr. Moses Grinnell's house, corner of Fourteenth Street and
Fifth Avenue, was the only establishment of its kind in
America, and the one restaurant in New York where ladies could
be taken to dine. In those tranquil days when dinner parties
were few and dances a rarity, theatre-going was the one ripple
on the quiet stream of home life. Wallack's, at the corner of
Thirteenth Street and Broadway, Booth's in Twenty-third
Street, and Fechter's in Fourteenth Street were the homes of
good comedy and high-class tragedy.

Along about 1870 the more aristocratically-minded New Yorkers
took to dining at six or six-thirty o'clock; since then each
decade has seen the dinner recede further into the night,
until it is a common occurrence now to sit down to that repast
at eight or even nine o'clock. Not only has the hour changed,
but the meal itself has undergone a radical transformation, in
keeping with the general increase of luxurious living,
becoming a serious although hurried function. In consequence,
to go to the theatre and be present at the rising of the
curtain means, for the majority possessing sufficient means to
go often to the play and culture enough to be discriminating,
the disarrangement of the entire machinery of a household as
well as the habits of its inmates.

In addition to this, dozens of sumptuous establishments have
sprung up where the pleasure of eating is supplemented by
allurements to the eye and ear. Fine orchestras play nightly,
the air is laden with the perfume of flowers, a scenic
perspective of palm garden and marble corridor flatters the
senses. The temptation, to a man wearied by a day of business
or sport, to abandon the idea of going to a theatre, and
linger instead over his cigar amid these attractive
surroundings, is almost irresistible.

If, however, tempted by some success, he hurries his guests
away from their meal, they are in no condition to appreciate a
serious performance. The pressure has been too high all day
for the overworked man and his enervee wife to desire any but
the lightest tomfoolery in an entertainment. People engaged
in the lethargic process of digestion are not good critics of
either elevated poetry or delicate interpretation, and in
consequence crave amusement rather than a mental stimulant.

Managers were quick to perceive that their productions were no
longer taken seriously, and that it was a waste of time and
money to offer high-class entertainments to audiences whom any
nonsense would attract. When a play like The Swell Miss
Fitzwell will pack a New York house for months, and then float
a company on the high tide of success across the continent, it
would be folly to produce anything better. New York
influences the taste of the country; it is in New York really
that the standard has been lowered.

In answer to these remarks, the question will doubtless be
raised, "Are not the influences which it is asserted are
killing the drama in America at work in England or on the
Continent, where people also dine late and well?"

Yes, and no! People abroad dine as well, undoubtedly; as
elaborately? Certainly not! With the exception of the
English (and even among them dinner-giving has never become so
universal as with us), no other people entertain for the
pleasure of hospitality. On the Continent, a dinner-party is
always an "axe-grinding" function. A family who asked people
to dine without having a distinct end in view for such an
outlay would be looked upon by their friends and relatives as
little short of lunatics. Diplomatists are allowed certain
sums by their governments for entertaining, and are formally
dined in return by their guests. A great French lady who is
asked to dine out twice a week considers herself fortunate; a
New York woman of equal position hardly dines at home from
December 1 to April 15, unless she is receiving friends at her
own table.

Parisian ladies rarely go to restaurants. In London there are
not more than three or four places where ladies can be taken
to dine, while in this city there are hundreds; our people
have caught the habit of dining away from home, a custom
singularly in keeping with the American temperament; for,
although it costs more, it is less trouble!

The reason why foreigners do not entertain at dinner is
because they have found other and more satisfactory ways of
spending their money. This leaves people abroad with a number
of evenings on their hands, unoccupied hours that are
generally passed at the theatre. Only the other day a
diplomatist said to me, "I am surprised to see how small a
place the theatre occupies in your thoughts and conversation.
With us it is the pivot around which life revolves."

From one cause or another, not only the wealthy, but the
thoughtful and cultivated among us, go less each year to the
theatre. The abstinence of this class is the most
significant, for well-read, refined, fastidious citizens are
the pride of a community, and their influence for good is far-
reaching. Of this elite New York has more than its share, but
you will not meet them at the play, unless Duse or Jefferson,
Bernhardt or Coquelin is performing. The best only tempts
such minds. It was by the encouragement of this class that
Booth was enabled to give Hamlet one hundred consecutive
evenings, and Fechter was induced to linger here and build a
theatre.

In comparison with the verdicts of such people, the opinions
of fashionable sets are of little importance. The latter long
ago gave up going to the play in New York, except during two
short seasons, one in the autumn, "before things get going,"
and again in the spring, after the season is over, before they
flit abroad or to the country. During these periods "smart"
people generally attend in bands called "theatre parties," an
infliction unknown outside of this country, an arrangement
above all others calculated to bring the stage into contempt,
as such parties seldom arrive before the middle of the second
act, take ten minutes to get seated, and then chat gayly among
themselves for the rest of the evening.

The theatre, having ceased to form an integral part of our
social life, has come to be the pastime of people with nothing
better to do, - the floating population of our hotels, the
shop-girl and her young man enjoying an evening out. The
plays produced by the gentlemen who, I am told, control the
stage in this country for the moment, are adapted to the
requirements of an audience that, having no particular
standard from which to judge the literary merits of a play,
the training, accent, or talent of the actors, are perfectly
contented so long as they are amused. To get a laugh, at any
price, has become the ambition of most actors and the dream of
managers.

A young actress in a company that played an American
translation of Mme. Sans Gene all over this continent asked
me recently what I thought of their performance. I said I
thought it "a burlesque of the original!" "If you thought it
a burlesque here in town," she answered, "it's well you didn't
see us on the road. There was no monkey trick we would not
play to raise a laugh."

If one of my readers doubts the assertion that the better
classes have ceased to attend our theatres, except on rare
occasions, let him inquire about, among the men and women
whose opinions he values and respects, how many of last
winter's plays they considered intellectual treats, or what
piece tempted them to leave their cosy dinner-tables a second
time. It is surprising to find the number who will answer in
reply to a question about the merits of a play en vogue, "I
have not seen it. In fact I rarely go to a theatre unless I
am in London or on the Continent!"

Little by little we have taken to turning in a vicious and
ever-narrowing circle. The poorer the plays, the less clever
people will make the effort necessary to see them, and the
less such elite attend, the poorer the plays will become.

That this state of affairs is going to last, however, I do not
believe. The darkest hour is ever the last before the dawn.
As it would he difficult for the performances in most of our
theatres to fall any lower in the scale of frivolity or
inanity, we may hope for a reaction that will be deep and far-
reaching. At present we are like people dying of starvation
because they do not know how to combine the flour and water
and yeast before them into wholesome bread. The materials for
a brilliant and distinctly national stage undoubtedly exist in
this country. We have men and women who would soon develop
into great actors if they received any encouragement to devote
themselves to a higher class of work, and certainly our great
city does not possess fewer appreciative people than it did
twenty years ago.

The great dinner-giving mania will eat itself out; and
managers, feeling once more that they can count on
discriminating audiences, will no longer dare to give garbled
versions of French farces or feeble dramas as compiled from
English novels, but, turning to our own poets and writers,
will ask them to contribute towards the formation of an
American stage literature.

When, finally, one of our poets gives us a lyric drama like
Cyrano de Bergerac, the attractions of the dinner-table will
no longer be strong enough to keep clever people away from the
theatre, and the following conversation, which sums up the
present situation, will become impossible.

Banker (to Crushed Tragedian). - No, I haven't seen you act.
I have not been inside a theatre for two years!